


Love Feast

by KingOuija



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Elias wins, Force Feeding, M/M, Prison Sex, Shame, referenced homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOuija/pseuds/KingOuija
Summary: Elias doesn't approve of Jon's self-denial.(Someone on the kink meme wanted feeding kink, but with the Beholding)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 27
Kudos: 201
Collections: Rusty Kink





	Love Feast

He should have expected it would be some kind of trap, Jon realized, as the prison guard pushed his face into the wall. Months of refusing to speak to Jon, and suddenly Elias invited him to pay him a visit, with a promise to answer all his questions? From where Jon stood now, cheek pressed painfully between his teeth and the sweating brick, he realized how obvious it should have been.

Jon tried to relax as he felt the cuffs snap into place around his wrists. Basira knew where he was. If he didn't return to the Institute, he was fairly certain she'd come after him. Or at least figure out what had become of him.

The guard--Jon thought his nametag had read 'Dennis'--pulled him upright briskly by the back of his collar and guided him into a small, windowless room that smelled worryingly of fresh floorcleaner. Jon purposely closed himself off to the temptation to look at the room's last use. He wasn't doing that any more, and he didn't want to know, anyway.

The guard--Jon had been right, he was Dennis--spun him around and pressed him down into one of the room's two molded plastic chairs.

"So, I take it Elias changed his mind." Jon said, managing to sound dry instead of panicked. These things happened to him, he reminded himself, clenching his sweaty hands into fists behind his back. They always ended eventually. He always lived.

Instead of responding, the guard took the other seat. Looking at him more closely, he was younger than Jon had first assumed. His pale skin wore the ravages of stress and bad food, but there was still a cluster of adolescent acne at his hairline and a telltale threadiness to his mustache.

But there was more there, Jon realized, with a mixture of dread and sudden, skin-tingling anticipation. There was something inside Dennis.

"So Bouchard says you're the reason we're all still alive and sane enough to tell who's the prisoner and who's the guard." The young man's hands were clasped loosely, elbows resting on his knees. He leaned close enough that Jon could easily surge forward and headbutt him. Jon resented Dennis's complete lack of concern, even as he realized he'd do nothing of the sort. As if sensing the thought, Dennis gave him a contemptuous once over, grinned, and said, "Thought from how Bouchard goes on there'd be more to you."

"At least I can grow a full mustache."

Dennis frowned, fished a handkerchief from his back pocket, and gagged Jon. That, also, was completely predictable, Jon thought, somewhat fed up with himself. Dennis seated himself again.

"So I dunno if I agree that you deserve any kind of reward for saving this shithole world, but he's got me by the shorthairs, and if all he wants is me to tell you my story, well, it's easy enough. I've never forgotten it, and maybe it'll feel better to get it all out, anyway."

And, as Jon had guessed he would, Dennis told him everything.

And oh, it was rich. Even though Jon hadn't said the key words, he felt the same luxurious expansion of his edges as Dennis told his story. The same shining conduit between the man's eyes and his, through which traveled Dennis's experiences and the substance that was fear, but felt like pure, sparkling life.

Jon did struggle at first, in the most cursory way--pulled his wrists pointlessly against the cuffs, pushed his tongue against the sodden gag, grunting. He was trying to be good. Trying to deny himself this lovely forbidden thing. But as the story continued, he quickly went quiet and lax and absorbed it.

Dennis told him about the little girl who'd lived on his street as a child and the strange trick she used to do where she'd pull every tooth out of your head, then put them back in the wrong order. And how, after a while, she'd moved on to bones. And finally, she'd disappeared, but there was a copse not far away where a huge, multilegged thing moved, and sometimes it would make one of its legs very _very_ long. Long enough to reach in one of the windows on his street…

Jon felt so wonderfully healthy and solid at the end. Warm from the inside out in a way he hadn't felt--oh god, since before the coma. Maybe since childhood. Safe and well.

_It feels even better after you deny yourself for a while,_ his treacherous brain noted. _It feels incredible after you deny yourself._

Dennis emerged from the trance before Jon did, not seeming to notice having slipped. He got to his feet, looking down at Jon with a different type of distaste than he'd shown earlier.

"You're proper weird, aren't you? You come in here looking like a cancer patient and now you're in the pink? You literally changed colors, mate."

Jon blinked lazily at him.

Dennis smirked, and patted his cheek. "No, no. Don't thank me. Least I could do, really, for our savior." Jon realized he should be annoyed, but he felt soft and grateful. He would have nuzzled that raw, ragged-nailed hand if it had lingered against his cheek.

The young guard turned towards the door, and Jon snapped out of it, climbing to his feet and heading after him, tossing his head to try to dislodge the gag.

And then someone else came in, pushing past the guard.

Jon stopped in his tracks, beginning to realize what this was--

"Just sit him down in the chair," Dennis advised the second man. "He'll get all relaxed and cooperative when you start talking."

The second man, even unkempt, wearing a dull prison tracksuit, was remarkably handsome, with wavy hair and a square jaw. He looked sideways at Jon.

"Why's he gagged?"

"He was rude."

"Ah."

\--a second course.

Jon made the new man push him back to his chair. He had to, for the sake of his pride. But, when the handsome man seated himself and spent several minutes, head in his hands, thinking, Jon could feel his own hunger climb up from the pit of his gut to the tip of his tongue. When he turned his head into his shoulder, trying to dislodge the gag, he wasn't doing it to shout for help or protest. He yearned to _ask._

Was it even hunger, any more? It felt more like there was some greedy creature reaching out of his eyes

Eventually the handsome man--Keith, the name came unasked--collated his thoughts and began. Ten years ago, he'd been cast on a reality television show--sexy young singles locked in a tropical mansion with cocktails and jacuzzi tubs--and had gradually come to realize he was the only flesh and blood contestant.

By the time Keith rammed a golf cart through the papery painted horizon after leaping the mansion's fence, Jon was groaningly full. His skin felt hot and tingly. When Keith finished, looked at him limp in his chair, and wordlessly headed for the door, Jon couldn't bring himself to stand and attempt to follow. He felt both heavy and floaty, and, more than that, too relaxed to move.

There were more.

By the fifth, he felt tears on his cheeks. This one was another guard. He looked absolutely sick with discomfort at the sight of Jon lolling in the chair leaking tears. Jon wanted to reassure him. He wasn't in pain--it was just so _much,_ the fullness. He was so full, it was pushing the tears out of his eyes. Jon wanted to reassure him also because he could feel the man's fear already seeping through the air into _him_ before he'd even opened his mouth and god, Jon was so full, it was uncomfortable, but so heavy and dozy with it, moving was impossible.

Jon could only sit and watch as the guard seated himself and began to pour his terror into him, trickling into all the gaps inside him, swelling him beyond any imaginable limit.

He realized, after a moment, how fresh this one was. Delicious and, more than that, _familiar_ because this one was about Elias.

Shamefaced, the man, Bert, told his story. He was a family man with a secret. A secret that could get him fired. A secret that could lose him his family. A secret that the new prisoner--a man about his age, but posh, remote, and feloniously handsome--brought right up to the surface of his skin. And then the secret broke through. The prisoner stripped for him in the showers, when the two of them were caught alone. And the prisoner showed Bert everything while Bert gasped and convulsed and pawed at himself through his stiff polyester work trousers and brought himself to the most incredible climax of his life.

Jon couldn't tell if he himself was hard. His whole body was flushed and tight. Engorged with shame and pleasure and, as the story went on, fear.

Because after that, eyes had followed the guard. The prisoner's eyes. They looked at him from the faces of his fellows, from the faces of shop clerks, from billboards.

And, at last, from the faces of his children.

He ran from his family for fear he'd panic and tear the eyes from their heads. But he couldn't run from his post. Not as long as he could still watch his prisoner.

When Bert finally stood and went to the door, Jon watched him startle. Watched his back tense as he hastily dropped his head to look away from whoever was next in line.

Predictably, Elias himself appeared in the doorway as if summoned from Jon's bad dreams. But he wasn't. His hair had been shorn at some point and was shorter than Jon remembered. He wore the dingy prison tracksuit and soft-soled shoes--Jon would never have imagined him that way--though he wore them like a fresh pressed Savile Row suit.

Jon could barely raise his head, so settled for narrowing his eyes forbiddingly as Elias sauntered toward him.

"This is the same way you catch a snake, you know." Elias offered, eyes merry, "Put a few live mice in a bottle, and when the snake slithers inside to eat them, it will be too fat to get back out."

Jon hardly thought that was fair characterization of the situation when he'd been cuffed and force fed. There was no chance of getting that out around the gag, though, even if he'd been able to form the words. Then Elias straddled his lap, and maybe Jon did have a few choice noises for him after all.

"Calm down," Elias said, mouth so close to Jon's he could feel the words brush against the skin of his lips. "I'm going to let you loose."

Elias leaned in close, reaching around Jon to his arms, and Jon felt him do exactly that. Elias's small, disciplined movements against his sensitized body had him on the edge of a scream he was still helpless to articulate. Mortified, he felt the stimulation begin to pool warmly in his gut, his cock swelling, trapped against Elias's groin.

Thankfully, Elias didn't acknowledge it. Instead, oddly, he took Jon's dangling arms and slung them around his hips.

"So how are you feeling, Jon?" Elias asked, seating himself straighter in his lap and raising a hand to smooth Jon's hair away from his eyes. "You're looking very well, I must say. Much healthier than when you arrived."

Elias grasped Jon by both cheeks and raised his head. He seemed to realize something.

"Silly me. Asking you questions when you've no way to reply." Elias frowned thoughtfully as his fingers picked at the knot of the gag. "I must do something about Dennis. It's a shame to silence a voice like yours."

There was a soft, wet noise as Elias extracted the gag and pocketed it. Jon suspected he twisted to do so just to allow himself to shift against Jon's cock. He could feel Elias was hard as well.

"I hate you," Jon managed, hating the soft, slurred sound of his voice.

Elias gave him a warm look, cleaning Jon's lower lip with his thumb where it was wet, then raising his fingers to massage the corners of Jon's mouth where the gag had bit in.

"How's that? Sore?"

It was so intensely much that, even weighed down as he was, Jon's hips still tried to hitch, to push his cock against Elias's. Elias's smile widened and he dropped his head until they were nose to nose. Then he tilted his head, and brought their lips together in a feather-light kiss that made the hum rise in Jon's skin.

"Ha-hate you so much-" there Jon couldn't continue. The very breath on his lips as he spoke was like a kiss. It made him throb.

"Now, don't be like that," Elias chided him. "I _am_ going to answer your questions, you know. Go ahead." His eyes sparkled. "Feel free to try compelling me--I can't imagine how strong you've become."

Elias waited patiently for a full minute, despite the fact that Jon wasn't even trying to collect himself enough to ask. He was so impossibly sated, full to the point of what must be some sort of soul-nausea, the thought of Elias telling him anything of substance made him feel panicky, as though he might burst.

"Maybe later," Elias said at last. "Now, I think it's only fair I get to indulge my appetites, as well."

Jon was unable to resist as Elias stood and hauled him upright, just to shuck his trousers and pants down around his thighs, and lower him back into the chair. Elias pulled his own tracksuit off entirely, cock hard and flushed, standing straight against the paler skin of his belly.

Jon knew exactly what was about to happen. He couldn't fight. Could barely speak. But, most horribly, he knew it was going to feel incredible.

There was the small mercy, at least, that Elias backed up into Jon instead of attempting to fuck him face to face.

"Don't," he managed as Elias reached behind himself to guide Jon's cock into his ass.

"You're going to like this, Jon, I promise." Jon gasped as the head of his cock popped past the initial tight ring of muscle into a warmth so enveloping, it sent a flush across his entire body.

"God," he heard himself choke.

"See? I told you." Jon didn't have to see Elias's face to read his expression. Pleased, in control. Smug.

In a single smooth, slow motion, Elias engulfed him, settling his round, muscular buttocks heavily on Jon's thighs. Jon watched Elias's back arch in pleasure, long, sinewy muscles rippling beneath the skin, while inside, muscular contractions sucked at Jon. His body flush got hotter, and Jon was absurdly grateful again that, though Elias could definitely see his own expression with his uncanny sight, at least Jon would be spared the more immediate humiliation of eye contact. Of watching Elias drink in Jon's pleasure.

"Just this much feels unbelievable, Jon," Elias said, sounding the slightest bit shaky. He twisted to grasp Jon's still-lax arm and pulled it around to the front of his body. He wrapped Jon's fingers around his cock, holding the hand in place with his own and pumped it a few times. The shocks of sensation spread through Elias's body, rippling along Jon's over-sensitized cock, wringing a groan from behind his gritted teeth.

"I'm sure it will please you to hear," Elias went on, beginning to shift himself up and down around Jon, "prison has been dull and lonely. I've missed you terribly. You and my Institute."

"Please!" Jon sobbed, head swimming with hot sensation, unable to tell what he was begging for. His balls already felt tight and heavy, swollen with all the feeling Elias had stuffed into him over the afternoon.

Elias pumped himself mercilessly up and down, blasting Jon with wave after wave of pleasure. "It's-it's never enough to watch you from afar," he panted. He was working Jon's trapped hand furiously against his cock. "But every time you went out to hunt, I had to-" Elias's groan was terribly expressive. His head rolled back.

Jon raised his free hand, managed to tangle the strands at Elias's nape between his fingers and _pull._ Not with the brutality the hateful core of him longed for. Hard enough to wring a hot gasp from Elias, though. To snap his head back.

"Sweet little animal," Elias managed. "So proud of you."

"You-" Jon gasped. "You made me. You made me this." And _this_ was laden with all his despair and self-hatred and grief for who he'd thought he was and horrible, shameful pleasure. It tore him speaking the words, and the wounds glowed hot and delicious inside him.

"Yes!" Elias said joydrunk, "Yes. You're mine, and I made you perfect. Mine. M-my instrument." His legs gave beneath him, and he sat hard on Jon, whose eyes rolled back as he slid in to the hilt. "Fuck me to pieces, my--mine!"

Jon came into him, finding the strength, finally, to pull Elias down across him and _bite,_ animal that he was.

But he was blunt toothed and still logy from his forced feeding, and though he bit, the skin wouldn't break beneath his teeth. Elias appreciated the effort, at least, collapsing atop him as he came.

Jon let his forehead fall between Elias's chin and shoulder and sobbed. He finally felt something besides full, and it was betrayed.

He'd betrayed himself twice. Twice _more,_ anyway, he told himself acidly. But who was counting? God, how could he go back, now? How could he face the others, pink and disheveled and _healthy?_ Well fed and well fucked.

As his sobs tapered off to wet gasps, he became aware Elias had detached himself and redressed. Jon managed to tuck his limp cock away, and hitch his trousers to his waist a centimeter at a time. Despite everything, he still felt the remnants of that wonderful overfed lassitude.

He looked up at Elias, lost. Elias gave him a tilted smile and raised his hand to thumb Jon's chin. "I think that will have to hold us both for a while." He lowered his face to Jon's and kissed him, his tongue pushing Jon's tears into his mouth.

Elias stood, stroking his cheek and looking down at him fondly. "You've done so well, Jon. You deserve a nice meal from time to time. You deserve to feel good."

The loose neck of his tracksuit showed a wet ring where Jon's mouth had been, tooth marks like purple stitches. That was the totality of Jon's accomplishment. A love bite.

"You may still ask your questions, you know."

But Jon couldn't ask a single one.


End file.
